Róża walks away, her body pulsing with ache, with sorrow. How can she possibly explain to this mother, whose child is safe beside her? What is whole does not comprehend what is torn until it, too, is in shreds.

Near dusk on the mission’s third day, Róża trudges to the watch post where she first encountered Hershel on patrol. Little Paweł is there with him, keeping watch.

“Any word?”

“No,” says Hershel.

“No,” says Paweł.

A light snow dusts the air. Back near the campfire, the falling flakes glint like fireflies.

Despite what she’s been telling herself about Aron—that she’s only just met him; that she can’t possibly grow attached to another person she may yet lose; that she needs to stay focused on her mission to find Shira—Róża has been awaiting his return.

The following night, five of the seven fighters—Aron not among them—stagger in, exhausted and bedraggled. Róża sees who’s there, who isn’t. She doesn’t wait to learn what’s happened, doesn’t ask for the story, the details; she runs, half-hunched, to the dugout, another burial, and curls in her bunk, knees pulled tight, her wet cheek pressed against the cold, damp earthen wall. What ruckus trails in from the crowd around the fire she blocks out by burying herself beneath straw, covering her eyes and ears with her arms slung over her face.

When she feels a hand on her shoulder, she shrugs it off, refusing to open her eyes. “Chana, no! Just leave me—”

The hand finds her cheek, and it smells of metal and smoke. Before Róża can sit up, Aron’s hands are cradling her face. Instinctively, Róża wraps him in her arms, rough straw stuck between them.

“Why didn’t you return with the others? I thought—”

“Itzhak hurt his ankle; I helped him back, slowly.”

Aron leans in to kiss her, and Róża’s insides go taut and fluttery, until unbidden thoughts wedge in: wild carrot seed; blood on snow.

He must feel her shudder because he shifts to her side, nuzzles his face in her hair.

“It’s all right, Różyczka. We can just hold each other awhile.”

A small cry escapes Róża’s throat. She pushes her thoughts away and pulls Aron close.

Chapter 35

Before vespers, Zosia walks to Mother Agnieszka’s spare chamber. Despite the fierce cold outside, she tugs at the window and opens it a crack, hoping that her bird will hear, that he will come with news of her mother. Hands healed, she cradles the violin in the crook of her arm and tunes it, her shallow breath slowing as she finds each note.